


Fly With Me (Because I Can't Sleep)

by endlessnepenthe



Series: We're Both a Little Broken, But Together We'll Fill In The Cracks [11]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Adorable Peter Parker, Cute Peter Parker, Fluff, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, but without the - y'know - palladium poisoning imminent death part, seriously I couldn't sleep so I decided to write sleepless Tony, throwback to Iron Man I when Tony was having the time of his life flying in his armour, very very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 13:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20529098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnepenthe/pseuds/endlessnepenthe
Summary: “It’ll be fine. You’ll never let me fall.”In which Tony can’t sleep and goes out for a nighttime flight in his armour. He doesn’t realize just how far he’s gone, until he spots a familiar blue and red figure swinging between buildings.





	Fly With Me (Because I Can't Sleep)

(Men aren’t made to fly. Icarus is proof of that. Too selfish, too greedy, always too close to the sun.)

Tony Stark couldn’t sleep. It’s been a long 47 hours — and counting — of not a single wink of shuteye, and he’s running on rapidly depleting fumes. But he couldn’t sleep.

He’s already tried going to bed, tossing and turning for half an hour before muffling a long frustrated groan with one of his pillows and getting back up. It’s not that he’s not comfortable enough to relax. His bed is perfect, a fluffy mattress of memory foam amongst those with the largest price tag on the market, adjustable firmness and temperature for maximum comfort.

The bed is never a problem when it comes to Tony’s sleepless nights — it’s his brain. Brilliant as he is, Tony’s mind is always churning away, working at solving one problem or another. But tonight his exhaustion weighs thick and heavy as a fog, and his thoughts refuse to focus on creating the schematics for the recent SI project. Yet Tony’s mind does not rest; ideas come and go, darting around like tiny delicate hummingbirds, each barely half formed before it’s zipping away and replaced.

He needs his brain to _ shut up _ so he can finally snatch a few hours of rest. Not that he really wants to _ rest; _ no, he just wants to get rid of the headache — that might or might not be becoming a whole migraine — pounding at his temples, the burning sensation in his eyes, and the incessant fuzzy screaming of his whole body for him to _ stop. _

A fleeting idea that might actually be worth more than just the energy it took to partially manifest crosses Tony’s mind and he mentally grabs at it before it disappears, latching onto the thought. _ Fly. _ He frowns. It’s dark out, he’s so tired he could barely form a single whole coherent thought, and now he’s thinking it’ll be smart to fly? Maybe the idea isn’t quite as important — or sane — as he’d initially hoped.

But Tony’s mind isn’t deterred, the old but vividly bright memories resurfacing swift and relentless as a tidal wave; _ he’s rocketing through the night sky in Mark II, a sleek but still bulky suit that gleams of bare unpainted metal alloys. He’d wobbled in the beginning — _ JARVIS… Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk — _ overwhelmed by the sheer joy of accomplishment and the raw uncontrolled power of the armour’s thrusters, hollering and whooping his delight to the cheerfully sparkling stars in the endless midnight around him. Like a child playing with a toy airplane, he flies wildly with abandon, rolling twists and sharp turns, the exhilaration of catching himself right before he collided with the asphalt of the stress sparking through his body like electricity. _ Both emotionally and mentally, Tony had been spent that night, a deep lingering sense of satisfaction settling in his bones as his mind whirled with plans for Mark III.

He hesitates. Perhaps it _ is _ a good idea after all; certainly wouldn’t hurt to try.

It doesn’t take more than a single thought to encase himself in his armour. And although he’s been more than willing to stay indoors this whole time, with his armour on, Tony suddenly feels like a bird trapped in a cage. The walls of his home around him are now constraints as he longs for the open freedom of the sky.

When Tony steps off the balcony of his floor and lets himself fall, something in his heart spreads its wings. When he catches himself from becoming a smoking crater in the pavement with a few seconds to spare, it soars.

Slowly and gradually, a pattern is cultivated: free fall, wind howling around the armour; catch himself, the armour moving against the powerful pull of gravity; fly higher in the sky, watching as the lights of the city below recede to little pinpricks. And repeat. Tony focuses on the sensation of defying gravity, darting with childlike glee through fluffy clouds that send droplets of water blurring his sight for an instant before they’re whisked away by the speed the armour is travelling at. He doesn’t notice how much distance is passing or the direction he seems to be biased toward, too preoccupied with frolicking and tumbling around in the sky.

It isn’t until he catches sight of a familiar blue and red figure swinging between buildings does Tony realize that unconsciously, his supposedly aimless flight has sent him to Queens.

Peter yelps loud enough for Tony to hear when he finally spots the Iron Man armour — gleaming gently in the night as street lights reflect off its sleek surface — perched on a dark rooftop, swinging over to crouch on the side of the building and blink the wide white eyes of his mask owlishly up at Tony. “I— I was going home, I swear!”

“That better be right.” _ It’s a weekday tomorrow, you have school, _ Tony doesn’t need to say — Peter knows. There’s not a single thing that hints at how Tony might be feeling: his voice is smooth and even and largely noncommittal, he doesn’t move a muscle, and the helmet doesn’t retreat to reveal his face. To Peter, Tony is impassive, and he doesn’t know if that is a good thing or not.

Hopping up to sit on the edge of the roof, Peter idly swings his feet, watching the few cars travelling across the streets. “Did you need something, Mr. Stark?”

With a pointed thought, the armour around Tony’s head recedes. Cool night air, chilly enough for his warm breath to condense into wispy clouds for a split second before it dissipates, caresses Tony’s face and ruffles playfully through freshly washed fluffy brown hair. “...No.”

“...Then, wh—”

“Do I need a reason to be here,” Tony quips with a slight smirk. He continues talking before Peter could stammer a response, tipping his head back to look at the silvery crescent hanging in the sky. “Couldn’t sleep— Decided to take the armour out for a spin, fly around a bit.”

The breeze picks up in a strong crosswind around them, swirling powerfully one way and then the other. Tony’s eyes slip shut against the wind, his unstyled hair lifting and dancing around his upturned face like soft delicate butterflies in flight.

When the wind calms, Tony speaks again, quiet with something near reluctance. “I should probably head back… You too, Spiderling, before your aunt gets angry with how late you are staying out.”

\---

_ “Could I come with? Just for a bit.” _

_ “It’s…” _

_ “It’ll be fine. You’ll never let me fall.” _

\---

“Hey, May,” Peter chirps. “I promise I’m coming home soon.”

Tony flies straight and level, trying not to listen in but it’s hard when Peter is literally on his back. He tries to wrangle his focus towards flying instead of listening to Peter’s side of the conversation, making a large subtly curving oval in the sky around New York.

“—flying with Mr. Stark. No, not on an airplane.” Peter laughs. “It’s perfectly safe, I’m sticky, remember?”

Like a slow roller coaster, Tony loops up and around in a large gentle circle. Despite Peter’s reassurances and his own knowledge of Spiderman’s mind boggling gravity defying power, Tony’s heart thuds an anxious rhythm in his chest, ridiculously afraid of Peter falling. Every muscle in Tony’s body is tense, ready to spring into action to catch Peter if his spider like stickiness manages to fail somehow.

Peter doesn’t fall. No, he’s stuck to Tony’s back like the best kind of glue and is breathing a soft delighted sound caught between a gasp and a laugh. “Again,” he requests breathlessly around a fit of giggles, light and carefree.

Tony happily complies. This time his unexplainable anxiety is gone — the loop he makes in the sky is a little tighter, a little smaller, a little faster.

Sweet giggles give way to joyful laughter that lift Tony’s heart higher than anything else could. “—and— Mhm, yeah. Okay! Bye,” Peter says, his happiness bleeding easily into his voice.

Knowing Peter is no longer partially distracted by a phone call, Tony tucks himself into a tight barrel roll, twisting around twice in the air before straightening out again. Whooping like someone on a roller coaster, Peter lifts his hands off Tony’s shoulders to throw them into the air, and Tony’s heart nearly stops.

“Hey— Heyheyhey don’t do that!”

Peter lowers his hands. “Do what?”

“Hands,” Tony grits out, “put them back where they were.”

“Oh.” Peter sets them back on Tony’s shoulders. “M’kay.”

“Just— Don’t—”

“Don’t do it again, got it. It’s just— I’m fine, even without them?”

_ Tony’s watching through modified sunglasses — every muscle itching to _ be there _ but he’s too far, he wouldn’t make it in time even if he tried — as he sends the armour down into the depths of the lake, chasing after the white billowing mass of material. The armour tears through the waterlogged parachute with haste matching the panic that had Tony’s nails digging into his palms, flinging pieces as far away as possible in the water to reach the struggling figure thrashing around in desperation. By the time the armour could close its hands gently around Peter’s arms, the teenager is no longer flailing around, sinking limp and responseless in the dark water. Tony stands stock still under the blazing sun of India, barely daring to breathe, as his Iron Man suit pulls Spiderman out of a lake in New York. It’s only when Peter gasps himself awake, blinking in confusion for a blind moment until he realizes just what’s holding him up in the air and breathes a breathless _ Huh? Oh. Hey _ does Tony allow himself to exhale a shaky breath, relaxing slightly against the stone pillar he’s leaning on. He really needs a drink — his hand is shaking again. _

“Just do it,” is Tony’s tense reply.

Even without being able to actually see it, Tony could imagine the way Peter wilts. “Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

Tony hums dismissively, brushing it aside. “S’alright. Now, few more minutes and we’ll call it a night, kiddo.”

\---

Half an hour later, they’re both settled in their respective beds.

Peter — in his cozy dark bedroom in a Queens apartment — is out like a light the instant his head touches the pillow, a small smile perched on his lips. He wakes up in a good mood the next morning and greets his aunt with a smile brighter than the sun, going to school with a subtle spring in his step.

Tony — in his dim moonlit bedroom in the Tower — takes a little longer to fall asleep, but it does claim him within minutes. He dreams of speedy roller coasters and twinkling giggles of a happy child, waking up the next morning feeling more relaxed and well rested than he has in weeks.

(Men aren’t made to fly. But Tony Stark isn’t just any man.)


End file.
